


bathed in blood and saltwater

by Bluecoeur (vietbluefic)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Blood and Violence, Capaill Uisce, Dark Magic, Disabled Essek Thelyss, Each-uisge, Eerie, Essek Can't Help But Be Intrigued by Things That Will Hurt Him and I Know This and Love Him, Essek Thelyss-centric, Gen, Gentle Caleb Widogast, Horses, Inspired by The Scorpio Races, Kelpies, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Ocean, Ocean Horror, One Shot, Pining, Supernatural Elements, Therapy, Urban Fantasy, Water Horses, Wheelchair Usage, equine therapy, horse therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vietbluefic/pseuds/Bluecoeur
Summary: Veldrar Thelyss is many things. Butreasonablehas never been one of them, norparticularly wise. If he were either, he wouldn’t have risen so readily to his son’s goads about his lack of ambition. If he were either, he wouldn’t have decided to tame the sea, just to prove Essek wrong.But he is neither — and also not a horseman. And so Essek is the only one to see when the water-horse tears his father’s throat from his body.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 8
Kudos: 73





	bathed in blood and saltwater

**Author's Note:**

> I adore Maggie Stiefvater's novel _The Scorpio Races_ to bits, and it is ALL about the terrifying, enthralling mythos of water horses. I'm sadly not an equestrian myself (as much as I'd love to be ;< ) so my knowledge about horses and equine therapy is limited to what I've read up on them. Please also note that I am an abled person writing this, in case that distinction may be important to you.
> 
> Regardless, I hope that you enjoy this, because I definitely enjoyed writing it! Thank you! <3

It’s Essek’s fault his father dies to the water-horses.

He reasons it shouldn’t be. Veldrar Thelyss is many things. But _reasonable_ has never been one of them, nor _particularly_ _wise._ If he were either, he wouldn’t have risen so readily to his son’s goads about his lack of ambition. If he were either, he wouldn’t have decided to tame the sea, just to prove Essek wrong.

But he is neither — and also not a horseman. And so Essek is the only one to see when the water-horse tears his father’s throat from his body.

Blood sprays across sand, smooth as glass. The gray noon is filled with white noise. Waves crash and seethe. Gulls shrill and squawk. Something huge and hungry eats sloppy innards. Eventually, the water-horse approaches. A bay mare, the near-black of raw livers, his father’s blood drips indistinct from the dark rest of her. She circles Essek, once, twice, but the iron in his chair holds her at bay, and so with a whinny, the water-horse tosses her seaweed mane and trots back to the sea. She wades right in. Up to her knees, her chest, her clicking jaws. Then, just like that, she is no more than one of the ocean’s shadows, flickery below the waves’ undersides. Everywhere, the sea hisses and sighs.

Essek sits. Breathes salt. Breathes. He clutches the arms of his chair, white-knuckled, eyes glazed and dizzy. And that’s how the Umavi finds them.

She screams. Then she _bellows._

“Look what you’ve done! You stupid boy, _look what you’ve done!_ ”

He looks.

Not at the ruin that is his father. At the horizon.

Dusk dips into the sea, and sets the sky awash in red and orange and yellow. The whole world: on fire.

* * *

“Are you scared?”

“No,” but it’s a lie.

The color of its coat seems to bleed into Essek’s vision, until all he can see is brass-brown, like rusted copper, towering massive. The animal doesn’t shift and adjust its footing the way a horse would, either. Instead, it moves under his swaying feet like a ripple. Essek can’t explain. He can only grip the straps of the lift, and stare down at it, unblinking.

“It’s all right,” says Caleb and his voice is very gentle. It always is, even as his vowels stutter and his words furl into themselves with how low he speaks. “Everyone is at first. But it’s safe, I promise. I wouldn’t have you here if I thought Frumpkin would hurt you.”

 _I’m not scared he’ll hurt me,_ except that’d be a lie too. So Essek says nothing, just swallows hard while Caleb flags Yasha to lower him down. She does so, and Essek has no qualms about that; she is very gentle and, for a volunteer, has a remarkable sense for how to power the lift effectively. But as Caleb reaches up to take hold of Essek’s boots, adjusting them so that his legs will slide down either side of Frumpkin’s flanks, Essek flinches at the touch, then at the cool, damp hide of the water-horse itself.

The water-horse doesn’t smell like a horse; he smells like sand, and silt, and seawater curdling in tide pools, and when the lift deposits Essek’s full weight onto his back that huge copper head swivels to look at him. Under the loose forelock, the eye glistens lidless, round-pupiled as a fish. Velvety nostrils flare. The withers feel like wet satin, and Essek swears Frumpkin _undulates_ under him, muscled as a leviathan. Caleb murmurs something in quiet Zemnian to his water-horse and Essek watches in a mixture of terror and muted awe as the creature draws back its lips to give a hair-raising _krrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraw_. Around the bit, its teeth are dull white. Deceptively flat.

“How do you feel?” Caleb asks him.

 _A sandy beach smooth as glass. A noon day bright enough to blind. A mare the dark of raw liver. His father’s bones, jutting skyward, on fire._ “Like I’m about to fall.”

Rather than the reins, Essek’s fingers have curled into the water-horse’s mane. Saltwater trickles into his palms. He makes an aborted noise and peers into Caleb’s blue eyes. Mostly to save whatever remains of his composure, he adds, “He’s _slippery._ ”

Caleb laughs aloud. “You’re not going to slide under him if that’s what you’re worried about.” Then, gentler: “Here. I’ll get your feet into position, then remove your harness and we can try walking, hm?”

Essek swallows again and nods. His fingers twist a knot into Frumpkin’s bronze mane, which helps him feel marginally better. The man with red hair holds his ankles, starts to guide his toes into the steel arch of the stirrups. It comes as such a shock — how hot Caleb’s hands feel, even through thick leather, when compared to the sea-cool of the monster beneath.

* * *

Essek’s first impression of the riding center is this: it’s remarkably unassuming.

Also: the brochure shows a dick statue that definitely isn’t in the yard.

The stable isn’t very large. It’s more a small barn, really, connected to a wide series of pastures fenced by driftwood planks. The reception building (actually a little white house) sits slightly in front of it. The only way Essek knows he’s even in the right place is the sign that reads, _Widogast’s Therapeutic Riding Center;_ and the ramp. Steel and concrete, the ramp nestles beside the house’s steps and looks well-kept. Essek traces a somatic direction over the orb in his chair arm — west to widdershins — and heads up to knock.

The man who answers does not open the door. He comes trotting out of the stable instead. “Ah, ah, _hallo,_ ” he says and the cornflower-blue of his eyes exacerbates his surprise. “May I help you?”

Essek gives him a quick once-over. The man wears a rumpled shirt, has red hair and dirty hands and jodhpurs damp around the ankle-hems. Like he waded into water, but forgot to wear boots. “Are you Widogast?” he asks.

“I am, _ja,_ that’s me. Who, ah… Who might you be?”

“Essek Thelyss, a pleasure.” Essek takes a moment to pull the brochure out of his satchel. He flattens it between his knees, hands it over. Smiles, finally. “I was recommended to you. By an apparent mutual friend.”

Puzzled, the man takes the brochure for closer inspection. Essek watches his mouth and eyes ( _blue eyes_ ) then do this funny squirm at the illustrations. He laughs outright once he spots the signature in the corner.

“ _Jester._ ” The man shakes his head, not unfondly. “I _told_ her she didn’t have to make these, but ah, evidently, it seems she did anyway. Well. Nevertheless. Would you like to come inside? For coffee? And to, ah, talk?” He pauses. “My name is Caleb, by the way. Caleb Widogast.”

Essek accepts. The coffee is deliciously bitter, served with a pinch of sugar, in chipped porcelain cups. Caleb holds his between both hands, sipping careful, asking Essek questions. Not trivial ones, the sort such as _Where are you from_ and _What brings you to the coast._ (Those will come later. After.) No, he asks the proper ones. _Do you have any conditions that might preclude treatment here? Do you have any requirements equipment- or transportation-wise? What would you most like to get out of our sessions?_

And lastly: “Why this?” Caleb asks. “Why the water-horses?”

Essek swirls the last dregs of his coffee. Drinks down the words that beat against his ribs. Caleb stands at a respectful distance, spine leaned against the kitchen counter. His fingertips are char-and-ink-black. His stubbled jaws look rough. From this angle, Caleb’s profile is very beautiful. Essek forgets sometimes that mortals can be beautiful, too.

“I’d like to see it first, if I may.” Essek sets his cup aside, folds his fingers, and raises his chin. “Your water-horse.”

“Of course,” says Caleb, and leads him outside. The barn is large, brown, and tarred against the weather. Clustered windchimes hang across the doorway, and jingle disjointedly when opened. Inside, it’s clean, and smells of sweet hay and seafoam.

There’s a barred stall. Something gigantic moves inside it. Essek freezes. His chair jerks to a halt, inches beyond the threshold.

“His name is Frumpkin,” Caleb tells him. Across the floor, his shadow straightens tall beside Essek’s. “We’ve known each other awhile now. He makes a wonderful, wonderful horse. He listens to me, and understands much of _people._ He’s very smart, and very good.” All this spoken with a certain, fervent pride.

Sunlight pours through the open doorway and glints off a bronze hide. That helps; the brighter shade of this creature’s coat. Essek parts his lips and breathes, tasting gore and the sea-rot stench of the bay mare.

“You’re a wizard,” he speaks up at last. “One of some merit, if I’m not wrong. So. Why this, then? Why the water-horses?”

Caleb blushes. He reaches towards his elbows and rolls down his sleeves, so that freckled forearms — as well as the arcane sigils drawn on them — hide once more.

After another moment, he says, “It is natural to be afraid of what you don’t know. To fear the things that kill you. But likewise, there is— there is a grandness to this. To reaching out in spite of fear. To _understanding_ the magic that frightens you.”

Caleb turns, and the expression he wears is something vast and eager and hopeful.

“I can try to show you how. If. If you want it.”

Essek barks a laugh. “Sounds as if it’s a challenge.”

He wheels a little further in, and now Essek spies a smooth muzzle and velvet ears, curled towards one another, like little devil horns. He sees the amber glint of the water-horse’s eyes. The blue glow of Caleb’s.

He whispers, “Fine. Show me, then.”

So Caleb does.

So Caleb continues to do, every session after.

* * *

In some of Essek’s dreams, he never sits upon the spell-iron chair. He dons a star-and-ebony shirt, flicks runes over empty air, and modifies a levitation spell so that his feet — in a different way — never ever touch the ground. His body, upright and proud as any Denchild. Shoulders rolled back in arrogance. Chin held high. Throat bared.

In those dreams, this is how he is when he is with his father.

In those dreams, there is no iron to save him.

Teeth in his neck. Air and sun far above. Saltwater gushing, burning, into his ears and mouth and nostrils and veins.

He awakes and darts his eyes to the chair in the corner, pulse racing thunderous as hoofbeats.

* * *

“Tell me why you’re afraid of them,” Caleb asks him one day. “The horses.”

Essek lies draped over Frumpkin’s bare back, face tipped towards the evening sky. Their sessions are always at dusk or at night; the coastal sun sears Essek’s eyes, burns his dark drow skin. Frumpkin sways in place and the sensation calls to Essek’s mind that of a boat, rocking on still water.

Eyes closed, he replies, “When I was eighty my father was killed by one, and I still can’t bring myself to feel sorry about it.”

The silence hangs thick.

“Ah,” says Caleb.

Essek dares to peek, and Caleb is gazing into the darkness with a pensive expression. Wind tosses his red hair tangled, which never does seem to dry out completely. Ever a touch wet — stiff from the sea salt. Essek wants to curl locks of them around his fingers, red on deep violet.

Not for the first time, Caleb murmurs, “I wouldn’t let you be hurt, Essek.”

Essek rolls his eyes skyward again, ignoring the quickening of his heart. “Of course not. If only because my mother’s lawsuits would be absolute hell to deal with.”

That makes Caleb chortle and Essek smiles to have caused him to laugh. The sound soon fades into the stars.

“You’re afraid. Which is, you know, good. Healthy.”

Essek scoffs. “You are not that kind of therapist, Widogast.”

“No, I am not. But I— I don’t think you hate them.” A pause. Softer: “You don’t hate the horses. Do you, Essek?”

“They’re monstrous,” and it’s not a lie.

“As magic tends to be.”

There is a glint in Caleb’s eye, ice-bright, when Essek looks at him again.

“And I find that when we, too, are monsters, that is often why we love it so.”

* * *

In truth, Frumpkin is not a real water-horse. Essek learns this fairly quickly; because everyone knows that no true water-horse would stand to be tamed without proper price. And Caleb — who scratches his hindquarters, and braids his tail, and lifts his legs to check for sea-stones without any trace of fear — would have surely run out of limbs by now.

So, no. Frumpkin is something conjured, perhaps — or transformed. It makes sense. In this world, magic sits uneasy beside modern tech and machinery, and everyone knows that ocean-magic will be the last of all these to ever be conquered.

Even so, Essek can’t deny it: the first time he comes over for dinner (to discuss with Caleb their next therapy plan; his voice and his blue eyes and his coarse warm hands had nothing, nothing to do at all, with Essek’s want to see him again) and spies a familiarly-colored cat meandering the halls, he is—

Well.

Disappointed, in spite of himself.

(At what, though, exactly? The falseness of the water-horse? Or the realization that even Caleb, wondrous wizard, peerless horseman, is not so great as to hold by the reins a piece of the very sea?)

“I want people to know that they are not beasts,” is Caleb’s quiet explanation. Frumpkin is no longer a water-horse, but a fire-cat, and he burns and flickers where he coils purring in Caleb’s lap. “The horses are wild, and sometimes very terrible, yes. But it would be good if they were seen as more than man-eating monsters.”

A beat. He smiles, weakly.

“They, ah, sometimes do prefer softer meat. Non-humanoid ones. Like lamb, you know.”

It’s fine. That’s fine. They continue their sessions. Essek continues pretending that something inside him doesn’t quiver, whenever he watches Caleb put his face close to water-horse-Frumpkin’s head, so as to whisper into the curled ear, and trail callused fingers down the animal’s long cheeks. The beast blows in his face. Caleb blows back and grins.

Essek imagines Caleb a grisly smear under the sunset. Then, over time, he imagines Caleb that close to him. Cheek-to-cheek; murmuring to tame him. The quiver turns to an ache.

It’s lovely.

It’s impossible.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

* * *

And then one day it isn’t.

* * *

Essek doesn’t even have time to grab his chair. He locks his door, seizes a handful of chalk, and is halfway through the ritual when he hears glass shatter downstairs.

 _Hurry up hurry up hurry up!_ His shirt is soaked through with sweat by the time he finishes. The runes light up just as the door splinters. Essek hurls a spell, hears shouts and screams, tips himself sideways into the teleportation circle, and vanishes.

He re-emerges in one of the pastures at the riding center. The air smells of lightning and rain. The sky is deep, dark gray from clouds and twilight alike. Essek claws at the packed earth and cries out, “Caleb! CALEB!”

And then Caleb is there, and his blue ( _blue as flowers blue as the sky blue as the ocean wild and fierce and drowning_ ) eyes are huge and bewildered.

“Essek? _Was ist passiert, warum bist du—_ ” 

There is the sound of air being sucked into itself, not far off. Caleb falls dead silent. Because he, too, recognizes the noise of a teleportation circle being used.

“Help me, _please._ ”

Essek gathers Caleb’s shirt in his fists and stares up, up, beyond desperate. Not long now, not long now at all.

“I did— I did something, something against my country, and they _know_ and if they find me, I’m dead, I’m dead, please I didn’t know where else to go, Caleb, _Caleb, please—_ ”

_It’s useless,_ he thinks. It’s selfish. Caleb isn’t of the Dynasty, he doesn’t care about the Luxon. He hears someone shout ( _“There he is! The traitor!”_ ) and sees Caleb’s face twist, and despairs. Caleb only wants his seaside house, and his fire-cat, and his water-horses, and Essek will rip all of that away if Caleb chooses him now. If Caleb helps him, he’s doomed forever, branded a fellow wanted man.

_“Thelyss!”_

And yet Essek came to him anyway.

Because he’s stupid and selfish, and terrified to die without seeing him, one last time.

“Essek.”

Caleb bends down to him. Despite no rain, his bloodred hair is wet. Plastered in loose coils over his eyes, which glisten, sharp like the sun iced over. Like frost on the ocean. Essek feels his breath halt in his lungs. Caleb’s hands dig into his shoulders and he whispers, hushed, frantic, “Are you scared of me?”

“No.”

For once: the truth.

Caleb exhales, slowly. Footsteps thunder towards them, matching the storm that brews above. Then Caleb’s arms cinch around his waist and _haul_ him up, and in shock Essek throws his own arms around the man’s neck right before a wave of saltwater kicks out his legs, and crashes over his face.

Except _no, no, not truly._ Because the sky splits and rain pours and the roar of thunder crashes from two directions, above and below. Essek hears shouting. Glimpses figures behind. But then the sea surges and a current tears him forward. There is no water, though. Just dry land — packed beach — all around, whizzing past and under and behind them and Essek is gasping for air, clinging for life to a bloodred mane, familiar yet unfamiliar, head bent low over an arched neck the color of the world on fire.

_Oh,_ he thinks.

_Oh, oh, oh._

Frumpkin was like riding a sea monster, sinuous but solid. Now Essek rides the tides. The lightning the water the sea.

The world whistles by. Tears rip from his eyes. Muscles surge and unsurge beneath him, lungs expand and gust like bellows. His own body: hurtled along on a tidal wave. A sprinting gallop to doom — or to safety.

* * *

(“Is it true,” Essek once asks, “that if a water-horse runs fast enough, not even the gods can catch up?”

And Caleb, who’d poured his wine, and made Essek a fine dinner of Zemnian lamb-and-onion stew, pauses. Thinks about it. Then laughs, softly. He has a beautiful laugh.

“Nothing can keep up with the sea, I don’t think,” he says. “So, _ja,_ yes. I suppose one could. Given the right reason to.”)

* * *

Essek’s pulse races to match the ocean’s. Thunderous as hoofbeats.


End file.
